Bent and Beat

I know this old test pilot
as tall and lean as a Saturn V
and just as obsolete
he pumps himself full of 80 proof fuel
sitting on an aged, cracked vinyl launchpad
elbows against the stained gantry
escaping the gravity of sobriety
orbiting the failures of his life, trying to get a better view
until mission control passes over the avocado phone call from his wife
the receiver crashes loudly
and he staggers to my end of the bar, smoking upon
re-entry
he calls me Ace and asks for a ride home
as always, i oblige
i drive him out towards his mobile home in the desert
on the edge of town
for the first half of the recovery he brags
about earthrise, meeting the president
about dehydrated meatloaf and of all of the Tang he used to get
but then he falls silent, eyes on the clear blue sky overhead
watching the wispy contrails of passing jets fade into nothingness
I pull into the long and dusty driveway
and his wife waits there, pacing in front of their aluminum capsule
and with relief in her eyes she escorts him to his bed
followed by their cats and dogs, a fallen hero's parade.